


On the Cross

by Sourwoif



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark!Derek, Depends, M/M, Short but mildly disturbing, Spot the Literary Device, might be murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourwoif/pseuds/Sourwoif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It continued for weeks on end, brief comforts with unknown purpose. To this moment, he never could figure what “it” quite is. It was an emotion, a state of existing- everything at one moment and then nothing at all the next."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Cross

       It was a gentle touch at first, hesitant and afraid. It made Stiles’ head snap to attention and his lips part for a second of shock before he went back to bandaging his arm. The touch was gone as quickly as it came, fleeting with its warmth.

       It continued for weeks on end, brief comforts with unknown purpose. To this moment, he never could figure what “it” quite is. It was an emotion, a state of existing- everything at one moment and then nothing at all the next.

       Soon, touches and words became lingering glances. Each time, Stiles adapted that endearing look of disbelief before he twitched and went back about his business. One memorable occasion, he found his fingers wrapping around a shaking hand and stilling it. He wasn’t met with a look of disbelief that time.

       At some point, it became mutual. He could feel the slide of Stiles’ fingers on every part of his body for days after they were there. It was all so innocent at first, pure like a drop of fresh rainwater to a parched man. It was never mentioned, only silently appreciated. It didn’t take long at all for the fresh rainwater to become acidic, and he _burned_. A stray wisp of hair, an unconscious lick of the lips, a smirk only meant to ruse, and god, how he burned for it all.

       He should have expected it all, in hindsight. There was no such thing as innocence. The purest creature has a flaw that mars them. Wrong as it is, he should have expected it all. They were born in greed and lust and gluttony. Sins slid around and slammed him down until his dissent to burn was unblocked by concrete resolution. He watched those limbs, pale yet strength embodied in beauty, snake-like in their delicate wrapping and corded muscles resting in potential.

       “I love you.”

       There wasn’t a response to meet him, couldn’t have been, not a coherent one at least. Only a gasp, a whimper if one listened hard enough, he did at least.

       “I’m sorry.”

       It wasn’t nearly sincere enough. There were dark wine stains littering the once untainted white sheets. He wrapped his fingers around a shaking hand and stilled it.

       “I didn’t mean to.”

       But does anyone mean to do anything? People don’t do things to mean them; they do them because they _want_ to. And he wanted. He didn’t mean to want, but god, he wanted.

       When lips ceased to part, however, he realized his mistake. He’d stilled a hand, and it no longer shook. The wine was rich, but it was poor when given to one with a burned tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the mood for some ambiguous and creepy with a dash of rhetorical strategy.


End file.
